


where the waves call us down

by whodunit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ...of a sort, Character Death, M/M, Mermaid!Trevelyan, mermaid!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whodunit/pseuds/whodunit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, when Dorian was a child, a fortune teller told him he would have the pleasure of dying at sea. </p><p>Dorian has, understandably, since been terrified of the ocean.</p><p>mermaid!AU because why not</p>
            </blockquote>





	where the waves call us down

**Author's Note:**

> this fic brought to you courtesy of dorian's bellyaching whenever you drag him along to the storm coast

Once, when Dorian was a child, a fortune teller told him he would have the pleasure of dying at sea.

Dorian has, understandably, since been terrified of the ocean. Which does little to explain why he is on a boat now, out in the middle of nowhere.

If there had been a simpler, cheaper way to get from Tevinter to the Free Marches, he would have taken it. As it was, even purchasing fare upon his half-rate ship has taken more coin than he likes to think about. But he’d been desperate to be gone, his fear of staying in Tevinter outweighing his fear of the ocean.

Or at least it had. Now that he is actually upon the ship, actually out in the middle of the sea, water stretching as far as he can see, no land in sight, Dorian isn’t quite sure he’s made the right choice. He’s never even learned to swim, for Maker’s sake. He’ll be helpless should the ship take any damage.

And to make matters worse, for the past few days, Dorian has been half convinced there’s been something in the water, watching him. Venturing to the cabins below, with their narrow passages and swaying floors, makes him feel as though he’s slowly suffocating, so he’s taken to sleeping on the deck under the stars. On still nights, when the waves are but gentle laps against the hull, Dorian whiles away the hours watching the moon reflect on the water’s surface. And he swears, out of the corner of his eye, he’s seen something there in the water.

There are tales, old tales from long, long ago, of fantastic creatures that call the ocean home. Timeless, terrible creatures, beasts that would put dragons and darkspawn to shame. Tales of old wars that wage on beneath the waves, battles that started long before the age of men and will continue long after men are gone, down there in the dark where no creature born of land can reach. Hidden kingdoms, in their watery empires.

Huddled on dry land in front of a roaring hearth, it all sounds very romantic and dashing. Out on a creaky ship under the night sky, it’s disquieting.

As far as Dorian’s concerned, they can’t reach shore fast enough.

```

When the storm comes, it’s sudden, and no one is prepared. One moment the sea seems still, and the next the sky has ripped open above them. The downpour is such that for a moment Dorian considers he may have a better chance of drowning on the deck of the ship than he would if he jumped overboard.

The crew is yelling. Lightning strikes one of the masts, toppling it across the deck. The wood of the railing cracks beneath it, shards spraying. Some catch a crewman in the leg and he screams.

Then one of the waves rises above them, so high it seems to block out the sky. It curls down upon them, almost lovingly slow, so that for one wild moment Dorian almost believes this won’t kill him.

Then the wave is upon them, and it is complete madness.

Down beneath the waves, it is surprisingly quiet. He tries to open his eyes, but it is dark. He doesn’t know which way is up, which is down. Lightning flashes and the water around him is illuminated, the debris, the ship turned upside down above.

Then it is dark again, and the panic settles in. He thrashes in the water, his breath beginning to burn in his lungs. The old fortune tellers words echo in his ears-- _die at sea die at sea_ \--and his mind flares white hot, the terror leaving no room for coherent thought.

Hands are grasping him, an arm circling around his waist. He’s struggling, kicking. His elbow collides with what feels like a nose, and a hand grasps his wrist, wrenching his arm back.

Then, oddities of oddities, he feels a mouth press against his. He opens his mouth in surprise. A mistake. The last of the air rushes out, and water rushes in and--

_die at sea die at sea_

```

When Dorian wakes, at first he’s not entirely sure he’s not dead and this is just some terrible joke of the Maker’s. His entire body aches, and the back of his throat burns. He’s half washed up on shore, draped amongst rocks and sand. The sun beats down from a clear blue sky. Not a single cloud is in sight.

A wave crashes upon the shore, brushing up against his mouth and nose. He jerks up on his elbows, coughing and sputtering.

He manages to drag himself further ashore, so that he’s at least no longer in the water. When he lifts his head, he has no idea where he is. A little ways up a gentle slope, rock and sand give way to seagrass, stretching down a long barren coast as far as he can see.

A breeze gusts past, rustling the grass. It carries the faint scent of smoke. When he squints his eyes, he thinks maybe he can see plumes of it, off in the distance.

He shivers, goosebumps pebbling across his skin. He needs to get out of these wet clothes, or him having survived the shipwreck won’t mean much at all.

Sore muscles protest as he slowly climbs to his feet. He’s about to begin walking, when he hears the splash.

He’s expecting maybe a fish, or some other marine creature. Not a man half submerged in the shallows, watching him. He stumbles back and almost falls in surprise. Though he really shouldn’t be surprised. If he survived the shipwreck it would make sense someone else and even if this person isn’t familiar it’s not like he met everyone and maybe it’s a bit odd he would just be sitting in the water like that but--

That’s when he notices the tail, curving up and out of the water behind the stranger. A fantastic tail, almost as large as a man standing, dappled a shimmering copper and bronze in the summer sun.

A man with a tail. In the water. Dorian feels light-headed, and half collapses back among the sand. He catches his fall with one hand, but in doing so, scrapes it against a sharp rock.

He hisses out in pain, drawing his hand to his chest.

There’s splashing as the merman in the water lets go of the rock it had been clinging to, making attempts to get closer to Dorian. It’s too shallow for it to make use of its tail here, and instead it had to all but drag itself through the water, using the rocks for leverage.

Dorian tries to scramble backwards, to get away, his legs suddenly useless, as though he can’t remember how to use them.

Wet nurses would tell him stories of men and women who lived under the sea. Men and women who were half human, half beast of the depths. Beautiful men and women, who call storms to drive ships under the waves, that they may feed upon the drowning crewmen.

The merman is reaching for him just as Dorian finally manages to gather his wits and scramble to his feet. He rushes into the grass where it can’t follow.

Its arm remains stretched after him, a concerned look upon its face.

Dorian takes one step back, another. The merman lowers its hand and makes a soft sound, a questioning sound, a sound Dorian feels he should be able to understand but can’t quite, like trying to listen to a song underwater.

The blood on Dorian’s hand wells. A few drops drip among the grass. The merman suddenly makes a frustrated noise, its massive tail lashing violently in the water.

Dorian turns and he runs.

```

He’s not sure how long it takes him to reach the fishing village, but by time he does his clothes are dry and his feet are numb and the sky is dark.

Most of the initial houses he passes are dark as well. The few people he pass turn their heads away, refusing to make eye contact, or hurry their steps when he tries to speak with them. Eventually he reaches the edge of the town, and there perched on out outcrop overlooking the sea is a ramshackled house. A small sign swinging over the door proclaims it a general store and inn.

When he knocks, it’s a hagrid old woman who greets him, hunched spine so twisted she can barely crane her neck to look up at him. Past her is a small sitting room with a pitiful fire in the hearth, and tall shelves filled with odd knickknacks, interspersed with doorways covered in rotted fabric.

“Oh dearie,” she says, when she sees him. “You look like a rat washed up on shore.”

He barks out a laugh, or at least attempts to, the sound somewhat ruined by his teeth chattering. “You’re not far from the truth.”

She takes his hand, guiding him to sit by the fire, and finds him a cup of hot water and a small plate of some dark greasy meat, accompanied by cheese that’s starting to film and slices of bread gone stale.

It tastes amazing. He wolfs it all down.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a room I could stay in, would you?” he asks, once he’s eaten his fill.

Her kind face crumples in on itself. “Do you have any coin, boy? I’ve already done you more than I do for most.”

He swallows, the last bit of bread feeling as though it’s caught in this throat. “Is there anything else I can offer? As payment?”

She seems to think about it. “Well, what with my boy running off, there are chores now I can’t do myself, and others aren’t willing to help with. If you can split some wood in the morning, do some repairs, I can let you stay one night.”

He thanks her profusely, and she leads him to one of the rooms. It’s one in the back, overlooking the cliff to the ocean below.

He quickly strips out of his clothes. They still reek of salt and damp, and he tries to wash them as best he can with the fresh water in a nearby basin, and then drapes them to dry.

The old woman gave him no spare clothes, but there’s a rough blanket on the sparse cot. It will do. He takes it and wraps it around his shoulders.

As he’s blowing out the candle to sleep, the sea outside the lone window catches his eye.

Out among the still waves appears to be a man, face turned towards his window. Then the man dives under. The shimmer of scales catches the moonlight.

Dorian dreams that night of beautiful men with sharp teeth that sing songs just on the edge of understanding, seizing him and dragging him down down down.

```

True to his word, the next morning Dorian tries to help the old innkeeper with her chores.

It’s just too bad he’s so terrible at them.

His attempts to chop the wood mostly results in hacked off splinters and dented logs and nearly lost limbs. Attempts to climb the roof to repair holes ends with one arm going directly through the thatching, creating a larger opening. When he tries to feed the chickens they form a mob and attack him.

“I’m so sorry, dearie,” the innkeeper says, “but to be honest you’re just making more work.”

Desperation wells up, hot and sharp. “Is there anything? Another town nearby, or a horse I can borrow, or something.”

She shakes her head. “Not for miles. Would take months on foot, and no one has the mounts to spare. Traders sometimes come by, but we can also go almost a year without seeing strangers.”

She must see the panic on his face. “I can give you a little more food, to thank you for trying, but that’s the best I can do.”

“No, no, I understand.” He runs a hand through his hair, tries to think past the clawing in his chest. “Thank you. You’ve done more than I should expect thus far.”

He takes the food, and he follows the beaten path down the hill.

He makes it perhaps a mile outside the town, following the small dirt path as it slowly becomes more and more overgrown, before he’s suddenly overwhelmed with the reality of his situation. He stumbles, dropping to his knees.

What was he thinking. So stupid, to think he could just catch a boat and run away from all his troubles. That it would somehow all work out, like some child’s tale.

Now here he is, with a bag of hard cheese and molding bread, in some Maker’s forsaken wasteland in the south.

When night falls, he could circle back. Use the cover of night to sneak back to the inn. She was but one small old woman. It wouldn’t take much to overpower her, a little magic if necessary. He could take what he needed, and--

He throws the rucksack away from him. What is he thinking. He buries his face in his hands. To think that he’s been brought so low, that he would even consider attacking and stealing from an elderly woman. One who had given him shelter and food when she had no reason to.

It’s fine, he can figure something out, he will be fine, he can--

His breathing is speeding up, the panic building.

It’s fine, he’ll just--

That’s when a fish smacks him in the side of the head.

He stares down at the fish flopping around in the dirt before him. The sheer absurdity of it causes to wonder for a moment if he’s lost all grasp on reality.

That’s when another fish hits him in the side of the head.

He curses in Tevene, clapping a hand over his ear. He turns to the sea, half expecting to see feral fish circling in the waves.

But instead it’s the beast from before. It sees him looking, and rears back its arm, another fish held tight in his grip.

It throws the fish at Dorian, who at least has the presence of mind to duck this time.

Wonderful. First he’s shipwrecked, then kicked out from the only village for miles, and now he has some beast of legend haunting his steps and mocking his pain. Suddenly furious at everything, he grabs one of the fish and gets to his feet. “Leave me alone,” he roars, throwing the fish back. It doesn’t make it far, merely hitting the shallows. That only infuriates him more. “There’s nothing for you here.”

The beast ducks under water. It resurfaces holding another fish, but rather than throwing his one at Dorian, it just holds it, staring pointedly at Dorian as it does so.

At first Dorian doesn’t understand. Then he glances down at the other two fish flopping about at his feet. He picks one up. “Are these for me? Why?” he asks.

The beast likely doesn’t understand, but it sees him holding the fish. It drops its own fish and makes a pleased humming noise, before diving under again. This time it doesn’t resurface.

The fish in Dorian’s hand flops weakly. “I suppose you’re meant to be for eating,” he tells it.

It flops again.

“That beast is likely just trying to fatten me up.”

Dorian’s stomach growls. The other fish at his feet flops.

Dorian considers. If he never goes back in the water, the beast can’t do him any harm. And if he doesn’t eat anything, that for sure will do him harm.

He finds the rucksack, and shoves both fish inside.

Dorian walks maybe another two miles before he finds shelter in the shadow of a large boulder. He gathers driftwood to make a small fire, and roasts the two fish as best he can.

They taste of saltwater, but it’s food, fresh food. When he sleeps, his dreams of dead men with blind eyes offering him handfuls of sand and glass.

```

From thereon begins something of a pattern. Dorian continues to plod along the barren path as it follows the barren coast. When he gets thirsty, he calls a spell of ice and drinks as it melts. Sometime in the evening, the beast appears and throws him a few fish, and waits just long enough to see him take them before swimming off. 

One night it even throws him some green, waterlogged weeds that he can only assume is kelp. It tastes disgusting, but afterwards he feels more energetic than he has in days.

Eventually the beast begins appearing for reasons other than feeding him. Sometimes merely to swim along, following the same path Dorian does. Other times to watch him as he sits by the fire at camp. Other times to amuse itself, twisting and ducking through waves.

At first, having the beast around was unnerving. Trying to guess at its motives, why it might be there. But as time passes and nothing happens--it never attempts to coax him into the water, or get too close to him, or any of the things stories warn you of--he begins to relax.

He may even come to enjoy the moments when the beast appears. It gets lonely, walking down this road. Having some company, no matter how strange of company it may be, is better than having none.

Dorian even starts talking to it. At first it’s to combat the silence. He can only take so many days of listening to nothing but the waves crash on the rocks, or the wind whistle through the grass, before he feels as though he’s going mad. Hearing the sound of his own voice is better than the silence.

Initially he merely recites old spells to himself, musing on ways to make them better, research projects he wants to start up again should he ever reach civilization.

But then he notices the beast appears to be listening. It’s no longer swimming along mindlessly, but seems to have drifted closer, one side of its head cocked towards him as though to better hear.

So Dorian starts telling stories. During the day he would recount old tales from childhood, places he’d visited and people he’d known. At night he would retell old tales nursemaids would read him before bed.

The beast couldn’t understand, couldn’t possibly understand. But it has a human face, and at least keeps up the illusion of listening, and for Dorian that’s enough.

And so the days pass.

```

Until eventually, one night, another storms hits.

It’s fierce and wild. Dorian should really take shelter, but there’s nowhere to go. The path has been precarious for a couple days now, little more than a narrow strip along a cliff face. He can barely see, and he hopes that if he simply continues forward, one foot in front of the other, eventually he will reach an area where--

He steps down, and the dirt underfoot gives way.

He hits the ground hard, hard enough to knock the breath out of him, and he’s sliding down, down, faster and faster, nothing to hold onto, anything he grabs at giving way under hand.

When he hits the water saltwater fills his mouth and nose and it burns.

The current immediately takes hold, pulling him out only to crash him back against the cliff, scraping his shoulders against the rocks. Then he’s being pulled out again, no time to catch a breath.

Suddenly hands are grasping him, pulling him close, one hand cupped at the back of his head, holding it above the water. He grasps back, not caring what it is, who it is, only that he’s not below the waves, not breathing water, that he’s not dying.

He’s moving, they’re moving, he doesn’t care. He closes his eyes and lets himself be carried off. If he dies later, so be it, just please don’t let him drown here.

_die at sea die at sea_

Sometime later, an hour later, minutes later, seconds later, he doesn’t know, the waves seem to lessen around him. While the sounds of the storm are still there, the thunder and lightning sound more distant, remote, and rain is no longer pounding down upon his head.

Dorian opens his eyes and lifts his head, and finds himself staring into the eyes of the merman.

He lets out a shout and throws himself backwards, wrenching himself out of its grasp. Almost immediately, bereft of its hands holding him up, Dorian starts to flounder, sinking back under the water.

There’s a worried noise and then hands are grabbing him, pulling him back up. He starts fighting it, panic clouding his thoughts. This is what it’s been waiting for, for him to get back in the water, and now it’s dragged him off, likely to some secluded spot, to finish what it couldn’t that first night. He should have never let his guard down, should never for a moment have believed himself safe.

Somehow, despite all his thrashing, the beast manages to drag Dorian over to where there are rocks rising up out of the water. They’re not large rocks, not large enough for Dorian to climb onto, but they’re enough for him to grasp hold of and keep his head out of the water.

Once it seems certain Dorian has taken hold of one and is no longer in immediate danger of sinking, it backs off, sinking down into the water so that only half its face shows, dark eyes watching him.

Dorian takes a quick moment to take stock of where he is. It seems to be grotto of some sort. He can see the entrance, not too far off, and past that he can see the storm still raging on. In here, though, the water is gentle. The violent waves crash upon the entrance, so that instead of terrible waves the water merely surges back and forth within the grotto, without much force. Scattered above on the grotto’s ceiling are strange blue stones, or perhaps creatures of some sort, that give off a gentle glow, filling the grotto with at least some light.

It’s not the best he could hope for, but at least he’s not in immediate danger of drowning.

Instead, he’s just in danger of being eaten.

“Don't come any closer, don't touch me,” he says, voice desperate and slightly hysteric, even to his own ears. “Stay there.”

Lightning flashes right outside the grotto, bright enough to momentarily blind Dorian. When his eyes readjust to the gloom, the beast has moved. It’s now treading before him, head and shoulder raised out of the water.

“Whatever it is you're playing at, I don't want any part in it,” he says, vicious.

He’s cold. His teeth are chattering. The walls of the grotto are worn smooth, and there’s no perch for Dorian to climb up on. The best there is are the rocks he’s currently clinging to. If he doesn’t drown, or if he isn’t eaten, then there’s a good chance he’s just going freeze to death.

He takes a moment to study the creature. It has the face of a young man. Sharp, defined features, with dark hair flowing into the water around it, with dark eyes to match. Its shoulders are corded with muscles, and he has a feeling the rest of the human torso follows suit. From what Dorian remembers, the tail alone looks like it could crush a man with one hit.

The beast is still watching him, eyes wary. It slowly starts to drift closer, eyes focused on Dorian, on his face.

What does it matter. If it’s going to kill him, so be it. Dorian is tired, so tired.

“Why,” he asks. He’s not really speaking to it. He’s just talking.

Why is it here. What does it want. When will this end.

Hands reach for him, pulling him close, pulling him to it. The beast is warm, warmer than he would have expected. He’s still cold, too cold.

He leans his head against a warm shoulder. The skin is soft against his cheek.

The beast starts humming, some strange song he doesn’t understand, and Dorian feels as though a weight is pressing down upon him.

He’s tired, so tired.

“I don’t understand what you want,” he tells it.

The beast only continues to hum its strange song. The storm rages on in the distance.

Dorian thinks he might sleep, but he can’t really remember. If he does, he dreams of his childhood home, of running through empty room after empty room as a rising tide laps at his heels.

```

The next morning, Dorian wakes to a calm sky. He’s once again been deposited on a shore somewhere, half washed up on the sand. When he drags himself up to higher ground, he looks behind him, scanning the ocean for the beast. He doesn’t see it, and he feels a sharp pang in his chest. He refuses to name what it is, that he feels, and instead presses on. He finds the path, waterlogged as it is, and follows it.

That night, the beast doesn’t come to bring him fish. Dorian tries not to dwell on that, and instead sets about building himself a fire as usual. But instead of staying up near the path, as he normally does, he makes way down to the sandy shore. He finds shelter under a rocky overhang. Should he care to, he could walk out into the ocean. Not that he would ever care to. But he could.

The moon rises, and still the beast doesn’t appear.

Irritation is welling up in Dorian. How dare it just disappear. What if something happened to it, during the night? He would he ever know? Would it just leave him like this, forever wondering?

He doesn’t think. He merely stands up. Anger drives him. Pulling off one boot, then the other. Next his shirt. He toys with the hem of his pants, and then takes those off as well. He’s left standing in only his underthings, and after a moment of thought, those come off as well. Dorian has spent enough time in wet clothes, no need to add to that.

When he steps into the water, he can’t stop the shiver. It’s colder than he expected. But he presses forth despite.

The water rises up around his knees, and then his thighs. It hits his hips, and he has to stop for a moment, let himself adjust to the temperature.

Then it’s at chest level. The beast still hasn’t appear.

He presses forth till shoulder level. If it doesn’t show soon--

Finally water is swirling around his neck and he doesn’t think he can go much further. He’s considering turning back when there’s a rippling among the water and suddenly the beast is in front of him.

Dorian stumbles back, heart pounding. “Where were you?” he demands, surprise turning his words sharp.

He doesn’t get an answer, of course.

“You can't just disappear on me like that! How would I know were something to happen to you?"

In answer, he gets a strange little happy hum and a small starfish held up as offering, and Dorian feels a surge of relief, so strong for a moment he thinks he might collapse.

Maybe this is born out of desperation, or loneliness, or madness. Maybe no human emotions drive this creature. 

Dorian reaches his hands around the merman’s head. He's not sure what he's doing. His hands are moving of their own accord. His fingers curl in its hair.

Maybe there was no reason it saved him once, twice. Maybe Dorian is merely projecting his own wants. Dorian doesn’t know. Doesn't isn't sure he cares.

Dorian pulls the beast to him.

The lips that meet his are cracked and rough. They taste of salt and iron.

```

Things become--different, after that.

It becomes odd to keep referring to the beast as beast, or merman, or it.

“You need a name,” he tells it one night. “How about Trevelyan? You remind me of the men from that line. Same nose.”

As far as he can tell, the merman--Trevelyan, now--has no complaints. So Trevelyan he becomes.

During the day, Dorian still travels along the path as he did before, but at night, he now camps along the beach. The merman still brings him food, but now on some nights Dorian wades out to take the fish from him personally.

And in addition, Trevelyan starts bringing him other gifts as well. Strange things, that must come from the depths of the ocean. Strings of glass beads of colors he’s never seen before. Necklaces of aged gold, carved with symbols long lost to time. Coins stamped with the profiles of men and women he doesn’t recognize from any existing nation.

At first he isn’t sure what he’s meant to do with them. Is he just meant to admire them? It doesn’t seem right to take them, if they’re Trevelyan’s. Dorian takes them and looks them over. He then tries to give it back to him, who simply makes a disappointed face and drops the treasure back under the waves.

So after not too long Dorian starts taking the trinkets. Soon his pack becomes too heavy, and he isn’t sure what to do. It seems a shame to just leave them. So he puts on some of the jewelry, as a way to carry it.

That night, Trevelyan coos and coos, hands reaching out to trace the bracelets around his wrists, the necklaces around his neck.

He feels strangely embarrassed by this, the attention, but also slightly pleased. It seems odd to keep receiving gifts, but to have nothing to give in return. One evening, he notices a tear forming in the bottom of his shirt. He gives himself a few moments to mourn, and then rips the fabric. He also rips free a metal button while he’s at it. If the shirt’s ruined, the shirt’s ruined.

Later when he’s in the water with the merman, he takes hold of Trevelyan’s hand and draws it towards him. He wraps the strip of fabric around his wrist. Not tight enough to lay against the skin, but tight enough that it can’t slip free. The button he’d strung on the fabric, and it glints in the moonlight.

“There,” he says, and ties a simple knot. He holds the wrist in his hand still, admiring the work. But then he sees it there next to the collection of fine jewelry on his own wrist, and suddenly feels a flare of embarrassment.

“Nevermind,” he mutters. He reaches to untie it. “Foolish idea, let me--”

But Trevelyan tugs his wrist free before Dorian can undo the knot. He holds his wrist up to look at closer, twisting it this way and that, trilling quietly in the back of his throat.

“Don’t know what you’re so happy about,” Dorian gruffs. He ignores the warm glow he feels in the pit of his chest when Trevelyan smiles at him.

As for Trevelyan, slowly he spends less and less time gone, and more and more time nearby. At night he takes to dragging himself up in the sand and sleeping in the shallows, if sleeping is what he’s doing. When Dorian isn’t talking, then Trevelyan is filling the silence with the strange songs he hums. He even attempts to teach Dorian to swim a bit, though for the most part they’re not successful.

But with the fear of Trevelyan gone, a new fear is resurfacing. Days and days of travel, and no sign of civilization. In moments of quiet, Dorian’s starting to wonder if he had actually died, on that ship way back, and all this time he hasn’t been wandering in the realm of the Maker. He needs some proof, anything, that he’s not alone. That other people exist. That the village from days--weeks? months?--back wasn’t just some figment of his imagination.

One evening, as they are sitting among the waves, Dorian turns to stare at Trevelyan. Dorian has gone out deep enough the water is lapping around his waist while seated, and Trevelyan has dragged himself up into the shallows beside him, turned on his side and braced on one elbow.

The moonlight catches on his hair, the curl of his lashes, the swell of his bottom lip. Ignoring the tail, he could pass for a regular man.

“Where do you come from?” Dorian says. “Why are you here?” Old questions. Ones he’ll likely never know the answer to.

Trevelyan trills at him, splashing his tail in the water gently.

“Yes, yes. The same to you.” Dorian mimics Trevelyan, though it sounds more like gurgling, and splashes his hand.

The water catches the moonlight around them, and Dorian thinks of the sea, and whether he’s really escaped it, or if it's merely bidding its time.

When Dorian sleeps, he dreams of walking along a path of bones, deep beneath the waves, dark behemoth shapes slowly circling in his wake.

```

Finally, one day, Dorian can see the outline of a town in the distance. At first he almost doesn’t believe it. But as the sun begins to set, and as the lights begin to turn on, there’s no mistaking it: a town. Civilization. People. Clean clothes and a feather bed.

He feels almost light-headed from relief. He’s made it. He’s not going to die out here in the wilds.

He’s almost inclined to walk the night through, such is his excitement, when he hears a splash and a hum from Trevelyan.

Suddenly, the reality of it crashes in. Trevelyan won’t be able to follow him into a town. He shouldn’t even really get close. Who knows how people would react to him.

When Dorian makes camp that night, he’s pensive. He needs the time to think.

The fish Trevelyan bring him taste bland, and he has to choke them down. He wades out to Trevelyan afterwards as usual, but is half-distracted, not truly present as Trevelyan tries to get his attention.

He can’t not go to the town. He needs supplies. His clothes are little more than rags at this point, and he can’t subsist for eternity on a diet of fish and seaweed. At the very least he wants some packets of spice.

He could easily stop there for just a night or two, to resupply. Perhaps get a map.

Joining a caravan to a city would be out of the question. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to see Trevelyan. They would travel too fast, and likely away from the water, and then there would be too many others, curious where he was sneaking off to at night.

Of course, he could always stay here. Take up a room at the inn. Or perhaps even buy a house. With the coins and jewels Trevelyan has bestowed upon him, it would be possible. He could buy a house on the edge of the town, tucked away, build it down by the water.

But that’s madness. Is he really willing to throw away a life for some creature of the deep, that he’s known maybe a month, maybe two? He can’t live out here alone in the wilds, it would eventually drive him mad.

But at the same time, what does he really have to look forward, in the south beyond. What really is driving him forward?

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a wagon creaking the distant, horses snorting, voices laughing. He jerks upright. If people are coming by, if they see the light of his camp, and then look out--

He pushes at Trevelyan. “Go, go. Get out of here, swim off.”

Trevelyan holds firm, tail lashing. His expression is concerned, and he cranes his neck towards the source of the sound.

“Go,” Dorian hisses again, pushing at him. “It’ll be fine. But you can’t be here.”

Trevelyan reluctantly swims off, pausing a little ways out. Dorian shoos at him again, frantic, and he finally ducks below.

Dorian is then aware of himself, and of his state of undress. He splashes back to shore, quickly dressing himself back in his pants, boots, what remains of his shirt. All this time in the wild he hasn’t paid much attention to his looks, but he is suddenly, deeply, painfully aware of the picture he must pain. The uneven scruff growing on his chin and upper life, his hair wild down around his ears, his clothes tattered and stained, the tangle of strange jewelry on his wrists and necks.

He quickly strips off the jewelry, stuffing them in the rucksack he still carries and storing that among some rocks. He leaves only one small bracelet he can’t bear to part with, the first one Trevelyan gifted him with. He also takes some small coins where the faces have been worn away enough they could potentially pass for coin from some existing nation, in the off chance the people stop and have things to trade.

He uses water to try and smooth his hair back, to try and make neat his beard.

Then he sits by the fire, and tries not to fidget.

A half an hour later, maybe an hour, the wagon draws closer. Then draws to a stop.

“Who’s out there?” calls a voice. “Who’s out lurking in the shadows?”

Dorian stands up, dusting the sand from his pants. “Merely a lost traveler, one a little worse for the wear. You wouldn’t happen to be a merchant’s caravan, would you?”

An elf and a dwarf are sitting up at the driver’s seat in front of the wagon, an unusually tall elf with a pleasantly vapid expression and an unusually short dwarf with a heavy gaze.

“We are, but likely not the sort you’re after,” the dwarf says. “What are you looking for?”

“New clothes, if you have them. And a mirror and razor to shave. Maybe food, if there’s any to spare, but really the former.”

“Those, we can help with.”

Dorian climbs up the slope, and the elf jumps down from the perch. He opens the back and brings out a small selection of clothes. Dorian selects a new pair of pants and a shirt, and decides to also grab a coat while he’s at it. None are really of his usual standard, and he has no way of knowing what’s the fashion here, but anything is better than what he’s wearing. They allow him privacy to change behind the wagon, and then bring out a mirror of polished silver. They set out lantern for him, and offer him lather and a dull razor. They also throw in a comb and scissors.

He can’t stop touching his face once he’s done, marveling over the feeling of smooth cheeks once again, and hair free of snarls.

“Thank you, thank you, can’t thank you enough,” Dorian says, fishing the coins from his old clothes. He hands them to the dwarf. “I hope this will be sufficient.”

“Where were you coming from?” the elf says, while the dwarf pours over the coins. “Not from the next village over, surely, not on foot. That’s much too far.”

“I had a horse,” he says, improvising. “But it got spooked one night, ran off. I’ve been traveling on foot ever since. Took most of my supplies with it.”

The elf nods, looking sorry for his imagined troubles. If only that had been the least of Dorian’s worries.

The dwarf is still rolling the coins between his fingers. “Odd coins. Never seen their like before.”

“I was a bit of a collector,” he says, improvising again. “All I had on me, sadly. Lost a fortune with that horse.”

The dwarf frowns, for a moment looking as though he isn’t going to believe Dorian. But then he nods, pocketing the coins.

“What is it you trade in, then?” Dorian asks, staring at their wagon. “I’m not sure I saw any wares I recognize, when you had the doors open.” It had been a strange assortment of things, almost like the spell shops he would visit now and then back home. Vials and flasks of colored dusts and liquids. Skulls and feathers and scaled skins. Books tied closed with leather bindings and chains of burnished silver.

“We trade in legends,” the elf says, a smile spreading across his face. “We trade in secrets and mysteries.”

“We trade in beasts parts,” the dwarf clarifies. “Rare beast parts, that can difficult to come across.”

“Like what?”

“Dragon claws, or unicorn hair, or teeth of giants. Those sorts of things.”

Dorian can’t help a laugh. “What brings you out to these parts? I’ve hardly seen anything fantastical on my days on the road, unless you’re interested in unusually aggressive seabirds.”

The dwarf stares out over the ocean as he says, “We’ve heard there are merfolk in these parts.”

The hair on the back of Dorian’s neck stands. He tries for a casual laugh. Years at Tevinter court means he’s at least somewhat convincing. “Merfolk? Aren’t those nursery tales? At least the others you’ve listed I’ve met people who’ve actually had run-ins with them.”

“They’re just rare. Tend to migrate from shore to shore, and even then only surface when something on land has caught their interest. But we’ve heard in town that some have been around lately.”

“But why ever would you want to go after one? What could they possibly have to offer?”

“Legend says those who eat a merfolk’s heart are granted immortality. Not sure if it’s myth or fact, but there are men, rich men, willing to pay good coin to find out.”

“Some call them the ghosts of the ocean,” the elf says, a dreamy quality entering his voice. “That they wear the faces of men who’ve died at sea. That they appear to those in pain, and try to lure them into the waves to join them amongst the dead.”

“Lovely. You two are clearly in the wrong business. You should be selling children’s story books, with the tales you weave.” Now that Dorian stops to look at the wagon, really look at it, he sees the shapes carved into it. Dark carvings of beasts with pained, gaunt expressions. A snarling unicorn fighting a dragon with two heads. A bird with the head and breasts of a woman feeding upon the carcass of a horse, only where the horse’s head should be is the torso of a man. Above the door a decapitated mermaid holds its own screaming head in its outstretched hands. The flickering lantern light plays tricks upon the face, making it seem as though the eyes are watching, staring down at him.

Dorian feels ill, and wants these two and their foul wagon gone, gone, gone.

The dwarf is watching him. “In your travels along this road, you haven’t seen any mermen, have you?”

“No, none at all. Before now I believed them legend. Still do, in fact. Not entirely sure you’re not both charlatans just selling people dried nug blood and ram bones.” Dorian makes some airy hand gesture towards the wagon, his sleeve dropping down.

The elf laughs. “That would be a nice change of pace. Would be a lot less risky. Less lucrative, though.”

The dwarf, though, is staring at his wrist. “That’s a nice bracelet. Haven’t seen the like before.”

“Ah, this?” Dorian draws down his sleeve, shows it off. It would be more suspicious to try and hide it. “I found it washed up on the shore, among the remains of a ship.”

The dwarf has a speculative gleam in his eye. “Could I buy it off you? Know some men who might like that kind of thing.”

“Sadly, no.” Dorian lets his sleeve drop, hiding it once more from view. “I’ve grown rather attached to it. A reminder to be more careful in the future.”

The dwarf nods, attention drifting.

They speak some more of pleasantries, of this and that. They ask him where he travels to, and he makes up some story about relatives in the south. He keeps his attention half focused on the sea as he talks, his heart too loud in his ears, hoping and hoping Trevelyan stays gone.

```

Eventually, despite it being dark, they gather back up their wagon and begin again on their way.

“Hunting is best during the night,” the dwarf explains. “That’s when most beasts stir.”

Dorian watches as they disappear into the distance. Then, once he’s sure they’re gone, he crashes into the water, uncaring about his new clothes. All he cares about is finding Trevelyan, and somehow convincing him--without words, he doesn’t know how he’s going to do this, but he must, somehow--to swim out deep in the sea, to stay gone, at least until they’ve traveled further on. If these men are out searching for merfolk, there will likely be others as well, and Dorian had seen sharp things in that wagon, dangerous things that spoke of dangerous men.

“Trevelyan,” he hisses. “Trevelyan, if you’re out there, you must stay away, you can’t come tonight, you must--”

Something hits him across the back of his head. He falls to his knees, not quite blacking out, but stunned.

He tries to get to his feet, falls again. He’s having trouble understanding what’s happening.

"Halmir and Krome will be circling back as we speak.” Someone is grabbing his arm, twisting it up behind. Another hand is grabbing a fistful of his hair. “All he have to do is get it in close, draw it into the shallows, and they’ll take care of the rest once they get here."

Accomplices of the elf and dwarf. He should have known, should have guessed. He must get away, they have some plan to hurt Trevelyan and he doesn’t want to be a part of it, he must--

His head is plunged under water.

At first he barely registers, doesn’t quite understand what’s happened. But the water presses against his mouth, his nose, his eyes.

_die at sea_

The fear gives him an almost explosive surge of energy. He’s fighting, struggling to break free, twisting and trashing. He almost breaks free, but then a second set of hands are pressing down on his shoulders, keeping him in the water.

The air starts to burn his lungs. The need to survive claws at the inside of his mind, but he can’t, he can’t, there are hands pressing down.

Suddenly the pressure on his shoulders is gone. His head is ripped from the water, and he’s left gasping for breath.

"They were right. Go after what it wants, and it comes."

The words almost don’t make sense. But then he sees a familiar dark head some distance out, and a wave of cold surges over him. “No!” he shouts.

He struggles again, the hands on him tightening their grip.

"It's not close enough. It'll be too dangerous if we try to go after it while it’s still out there."

They plunge him under again. He’s just been about to shout, warn Trevelyan, attempt to bargain with the men, anything, so his mouth is open. Water, water, all water.

_die at sea die at sea_

He's wrenched back up. He coughs, trying to air back in his lungs. There's the sound of snarling and splashing. Trevelyan is all but clawing himself through the water, tailing lashing in the waves. He has murder in his eyes, a wildness Dorian has never seen before.

His head is wrenched back further, and a knife is pressed against his throat.

“We lure it closer to the shore, where it won’t be able to fight. You know what to do, then.”

They’re experienced. They’ve done this before. He’s seen the skulls in their caravan. One had looked human. Dorian had thought it human, but perhaps--

He can’t. He can’t let them.

They still have his hands twisted up behind his back. Dorian can’t cast, not like this.

There’s still the knife at his throat.

If it weren't for Dorian, Trevelyan wouldn't be here, would be safe somewhere out under the waves where he couldn't be found. This is Dorian's responsibility, his to fix.

The men holding on his shoulders lets go and steps forward. He has a net hooked to his belt. He reaches for it.

_dieatseadieatsea_

Dorian throws himself forward. The man holding him isn’t expecting that, had been braced for Dorian trying to wrench his head back, and so there’s no resistance as he throws his head forward and to the right.

He’s disappointed to find the knife is actually fairly dull. They could have had the courtesy of using a sharp one, so that this would be quick. Still. It's enough. Just messier than he would have liked.

There's a terrible roaring from Trevelyan. There’s an answering screaming from the two men.

The man holding him releases him. Dorian falls into the water. He tries to push himself up, but he can’t seem to move his arms. He can’t even feel them. He can’t seem to feel anything. To see anything. It’s all starting to blur.

Hands are gathering him, dragging him deeper in the water. Sleep comes, and Dorian dreams of nothing.

```

When Dorian wakes, he is underwater.

His first instinct is to panic. He shouldn’t be here, he needs to get up to the air, where it’s safe, where he’s not in danger of--

Trevelyan is there, holding onto Dorian, keeping him from sinking. His dark eyes are concerned, questioning.

And then Dorian remembers.

He clasps a hand to his throat. There’s a scar there, raised jagged skin under his fingertips.

And his legs, they feel wrong, as though fused together. He looks down, and instead finds a tail. One like Trevelyan’s, but where Trevelyan’s is copper and bronze, Dorian’s is light and dark, moonlight reflected on rippling water. He tugs away from Trevelyan, tries to move his tail. Doesn’t get it quite right, starts sinking.

Trevelyan grabs him again, drawing him close against a solid chest.

“How,” Dorian tries to ask, but can’t form the words.

But Trevelyan answers, and for once, Dorian understands.


End file.
